


Danse Macabre

by TheAfterglow



Category: Alias (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ballet, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, F/M, Sarkney - Freeform, White Swan/Black Swan, things aren't what they seem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 04:55:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6038962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAfterglow/pseuds/TheAfterglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Who are you?"</p><p>He looked away, then back at her. "I don't work at a bank."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Danse Macabre

**"Sydney, darling,"** Sloane purred, "Come here, I'd like you to meet an old friend of mine."

She dropped Sergei's hand and glided, more than walked, across the rosin floor to where Sloane was standing with a young blonde man. She could feel the sweat pooling on her upper lip, cooling in the light breeze made by her movements.

"Julian," Sloane smiled, looking at him, "This is Sydney- we're fortunate enough to have her with us from the Joffrey in Chicago."

"The pleasure is surely all mine," the younger man said, grasping her outstretched fingers lightly and kissing the back of her hand. She could see the others in her peripheral vision, watching them in the mirrors, curiously.

"Hi, it's a pleasure," she said, though she didn't mean it. Something about his eyes gave her the creeps. They were bright blue, cold, and he didn't take his eyes from hers once, not even as he touched his lips to the back of her hand, on the tendons. She shivered despite her sweat.

Sloane ignored the weirdness between them, as he was wont to do, and beamed like a proud father. "Julian's mother is a friend of my wife's, Sydney," he explained. "We thought he might show you around London while you're staying."

"At your convenience, of course," Julian said, looking her up and down.

"If I have time, yes," she looked away, feeling uncomfortable for perhaps the first time in her workout clothes. They left nothing to the imagination.

"We didn't mean to interrupt," Sloane interjected, "The _pas de deux_ is looking _tres magnifique_ , darlings!" he called out so Sergei could hear him. "We'll get out of your hair."

She turned on her heel and fairly skipped back to Sergei, eager to be away from Director Sloane and his odd young friend. She hoped, as Sergei grasped her hand firmly and she lifted her leg into an arabesque, that she was not being set up. She didn't have time for that sort of nonsense.

* * *

**"So,"** cooed Anna conspiratorially as a gaggle of corps girls surrounded her at her locker hours later, "Who was the clever young thing Sloane brought by for you?"

She stripped off her top and stood, naked from the waist up, without looking at them. None of the girls batted an eye.

"I dunno, some friend of his wife's," she muttered, irritated at their interest in everything she did. It was bad enough that she was the foreigner, the guest principal for the season.

There was wave of titters and giggles all around her.

"It pays to have friends in high places," Anna said meanly. "Do let us know if he bores you, won't you?"

Sydney lifted her head and smiled as sweetly as she could stand to at the redhead. "Don't worry, I'll be sure to keep you in mind."

* * *

**She** lay at home in the tub, or what passed for the tub, in the tiny flat that the company had loaned her for the season. Flexing her toes and feeling the ache in the joints, she closed her eyes and thought about the strange young man.

Julian, what an old fashioned name. And who even kissed anyone's hand anymore, besides dirty old men who were trying to get into the pants of girls much too young for them?

She smiled a little and her cell phone started ringing in the other room. She hoisted herself out of the tub and wrapped a nearly threadbare towel around herself as she ran, dripping, into the living room where she'd thrown her bag. Maybe it was Danny, calling on his break at the hospital.

"Hello?" she said, breathless.

"Um, hello," an unfamiliar voice said, "Sydney?"

It was him. The stranger. "Yes, this is she," she replied, a trace of disappointment coloring her voice.

He didn't notice. "Oh, good, hello," he continued, "This is Julian Sark, er—the gentleman Director Sloane introduced you to at rehearsal today."

"How did you get my number?" she said abruptly. She didn't give out her cell phone, to anyone.

"Ah, Sloane gave it to me, so that I might ring you," he sounded more hesitant. "Is this a bad time?"

"Um, no," she said, straightening up at last and tucking the end of the towel between her breasts, "I guess not."

"In that case," he continued, obviously oblivious to her lack of enthusiasm towards him, "Would you like to out for a coffee? Perhaps a quick drink—I know rehearsal is early tomorrow, I've no intention of keeping you out late."

She hesitated. Coffee wasn't on her diet. Neither was liquor. Neither were strange young British men.

"I suppose," she agreed, despite herself. "Should I meet you somewhere?"

"Or I could come round your flat," he suggested, "That way you don't have to hassle with finding your way."

This guy was really old fashioned. She was too tired to argue that she could find her own way. "Fine, can you be here in a half an hour?"

"Actually, I'm right in the area," he replied, "I can be there in 5 minutes, if that's not inconvenient?"

She glanced at herself in the full length mirror on the bedroom door. This whole situation was inconvenient. "Fine, I'll see you in a few," she said, and pressed her thumbnail on the 'end' key.

* * *

**He** waited in the living room for her to finish dressing. She had answered the door in her bathrobe, her hair still dripping from a bath. He wondered why she hadn't told him it was a bad time. There would've been other nights.

"So, how long have you been here now," he called into the bedroom. There was a thump as something hit the floor.

"Ah, like maybe 3 weeks?" she sounded distracted. "Is it cold out?"

"Well, it gets colder at night here, especially in the fall," he said, "You might want to bring a sweater or whatever you call it."

"A jumper?" she clarified. So she knew the lingo.

"Yes," he laughed, "A jumper, a sweater, whatever."

She emerged from the bedroom, still barefoot but clad in dark blue jeans and a light green wraparound sweater over a cream colored t-shirt. Her wet hair swirled around her shoulders and face as she sank to the floor and pulled socks over her knobby, scarred feet. He watched her cautiously, trying not to stare, as she pulled her athletic shoes on and laced them so tight he thought it couldn't possibly be comfortable. He half expected her to stand up and tamp her foot down into the toe of the shoe before they left.

"Ready?" he said when she had knotted her left shoe three times over.

"I guess," she said, and extended a hand for him to help her up. He grasped her fingers again and she rose, without really pulling on his hand for support.

Even with her regular clothes on, she was a slender, angular form, and the top of her head barely reached to the bottom of his chin. She drew her dripping hair up into a messy ponytail, then twisted it into a bun and secured it with an elastic band she'd had around her wrist. Her face was so lean that her cheek between her jaw and the bone under her eye was nearly concave. When she turned to walk to the door, he could nearly count the little knobs on her spine, from under her hair down to the top of her shoulders.

She was probably stronger than him. The ballerinas nearly always were.

* * *

**They** walked mostly in silence to Café Matisse, not quite a five minute walk from her flat. It was a warm, cozy little place with amber colored walls and candles dripping wax down the sides of empty blue Riesling bottles. It was a student hang-out, which virtually guaranteed that no one from the RBT would be there.

She had eschewed his offers of coffee, tea, soda, or an aperitif in favor of mineral water.

She waited for him to ask the questions, and asked very few of her own. She seemed suspicious, almost skittish around him. He blamed it on nerves and lack of nutrition. Dancers had a tendency to be high-strung.

"So how do you know Sloane," she asked at last, not bothering to use his proper title. The hierarchical world of the company had apparently not taken her over yet.

"Actually, it is my mother who is acquainted with his wife, Emily," he explained, "My mother was once a dancer in the corps and they became friends when Sloane was promoted to artistic director."

"Huh," she replied, taking a sip of the fizzing water. "So you've been around dancers your whole life then."

"Relatively speaking, yes," he agreed, sipping his red wine. "It was apparent from an early age that my mother's talents on the stage were not passed on to me."

"What do you do, then?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at him.

"I work for a bank," he said, smoothly. It was the kind of work that did not invite many questions.

"Interesting," she said, and he knew she didn't mean it. "Listen," she said, her tone abruptly changing, "It's nice of you to want to show me around, but I don't need anyone to baby-sit me. How old are you, anyway? I'm engaged to someone back in the States."

He stared at her, surprised at her lack of social grace and her forwardness. But then, she was American. They weren't the type to beat around the bush. Much like the Dutch.

"Forgive me," he began, "I didn't mean to impose, I merely thought it might be nice to have someone here relatively your own age who wasn't involved with the company—I realize the insular nature of the ballet can be… trying at times."

"You mean it's a clusterfuck," she said, her mouth unsmiling but her eyes glittering with the humor of the term.

"Um, I suppose one might call it that," his mouth twisted into a slow smile despite his initial shock at her language. "And I'm 27, how old are you?"

She gave a short, braying laugh, "Too old for you."

"And how old would that be, exactly," he leaned forward, "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. "

"I'm 32," she replied, stage-whispering as though someone might overhear her. She pursed her lips against a smile and a dimple formed in one cheek. "Any day some 20-year-old snippet will replace me, and then I'll be a 'former prima donna'," she waved her hands dramatically, as though the term were in marquee lights, "Which means… 'a nothing'."

"You're not nothing to the people you've touched with your dancing," he said, thinking of his own mother. "You live in their memories as a great dancer."

"I should get going," she ignored his comment, "It's past my bedtime. We old ladies need our sleep."

"Fine," he agreed, and drained his glass.

* * *

**She** leaned on the door behind her and listened as he descended the stairs.

Her hand went unconsciously to her cheek, touched the spot that was still slightly wet from his lips. She shivered as she thought about what it might've been like if she had turned her head towards him at the last second.

"I'll call you sometime," he said, not meeting her eyes. She'd watched for a second as he started down the stairs, then unlocked her door and slipped inside, locking the deadbolt behind her.

Her phone lay on the coffee table, flashing that it had a message. She hadn't taken it with to the coffee shop.

"Hi, Syd," Danny's voice said, "Where are you? I'm out having a smoke on the roof and I thought I'd call you to say, it's a beautiful afternoon here in Chicago. Maybe 70 degrees, light wind, and the trees in Grant Park are just starting to turn colors. Anyway, call me if you have time—love you, miss you, all that stuff. And, ah… break a leg. Just kidding—bye."

She snapped the phone shut and went into the bedroom. She stripped off her jeans and underwear and left them puddled in the walkway, undid the ties on the sweater and shimmied out of it. Her top was thrown on the end of the bed and she slid between the sheets, naked. She didn't usually wear a bra, she was so flat. She raised her head a smidgen and drew the ponytail holder from her hair, feeling the heavy, wet knot of her bun slowly untwist.

She lay very still, feeling the heat of her body warming the cool, smooth sheets. She had left the bedroom window open and the smell of the deep fryer from a pub down the block was carried in the window by the light autumnal breeze.

She counted her ribs, touching each one with her fingertip, and imagined what his hand would feel like instead of her own. It was something she did when she couldn't sleep—the counting. She could even see them above her breasts, to each side of her sternum.

* * *

**He** didn't call for two weeks.

They had been rehearsing 10 hours a day for the opening of the season in mid-November, Tchaikovsky's Romeo & Juliet.

She was toweling off, seated near the barre watching some of the younger corps dancers on a Thursday afternoon, when she heard his voice above her.

"Hello, Sydney."

She started, not expecting to turn and see someone so close to her. He was clad in a black suit, pale yellow dress shirt and dark blue tie. Banker's clothes. The suit looked expensive, or rather… he looked expensive in it.

"Julian," she nodded at him, not wanting to give the _corps de ballet_ any fodder for gossip. Make that any more fodder for gossip.

"My apologies for not calling you like I said I would," his voice was low, "But business has taken me abroad for the last several weeks."

She shrugged, "We've been busy."

"So it would appear," he studied the flock of dancers in the center of the room. "When is the opening?"

"In a week, the 17th," she said.

"Perhaps I can make it if I'm not away on business," he said, looking down at her again.

"Do you travel a lot for work?" she asked, against her better judgment.

"A fair balance of the time, yes," he said, nonchalant. "Our bank has a largely international clientele, most of whom would prefer that we come to them, rather than the other way around. "

"How nice for you," she said, her eyes never moving from the corps.

He shrugged, "It pays the bills."

"Did you just drop by to chat?" she looked up at him at last. It was then that she noticed the bruise on his cheekbone, under his right eye.

"No," he admitted, "I came by to say hello to Sloane, who suggested I come round his place for dinner sometime soon."

"Oh."

"Would you like to come with," he suggested, and she knew it had been prearranged.

"When—I mean, we're really busy?"

"Are you free Thursday?"

"I guess," she said, "If Sloane has time then."

"Hopefully I won't have an unexpected out-of-town client meeting, but he told me Thursday was best for him and Emily," he replied. "Shall I ring you?"

"Sure."

* * *

**At** half-past seven, he rang the bell for her flat and she buzzed him up.

"Come in," she called when he knocked on the door, "It's open."

Hesitantly, he opened the door and glanced around the living room. She was nowhere to be seen.

"Come in already," she called from the bedroom, "I'm almost ready."

He stood in the tiny kitchen area and glanced at the pictures on the refrigerator: Sydney with a tall, handsome type with curly brown hair; a stern-looking picture of someone who had the exact same ears, perhaps her father; a young man with a shock of blonde hair and wire-rimmed glasses, wearing a t-shirt that said "BEER BIKE 1997" on it.

He heard the click of her heels on the floor and looked up.

"You ready?" she was clipping on her right earring.

"If you are," he nodded, looking at her outfit. She was wearing a long, burgundy colored dress that just brushed the tops of her calves when she moved, and a pair of heels that had satin ribbons that laced up her ankles like ballet shoes. Her hair was in a chignon, though some strands were already working their way loose at her temple.

"Do I look OK?" she asked, and he wasn't sure if she would change anything if he said it wasn't.

"You look wonderful."

"So, what happened to your cheek?" she asked abruptly. "Did you run into something?"

"Oh," he lied, "It's nothing. I'm a terrible klutz, caught my cheekbone on the countertop rummaging in my cabinet for something."

"Right," she said, looking away. He could tell she didn't believe it.

* * *

**She** didn't have much to say at dinner. She never did, at these things. There were other people there besides Sloane and his wife, Emily; obviously she and Julian, but a collection of assorted foreigners whose connection to Director Sloane she understood tenuously at best.

"Has anyone seen Mikhail flaunting himself on that American TV show, Sex & the City?" asked a tall, white haired gentleman named Alain Christophe. She guessed by his accent that he was from middle Europe, though she wasn't sure where.

"Baryshnikov has always been the chameleon," interjected Jean, a short mustachioed Frenchman. "At least he is playing an artist and not a dancer for a change."

She picked at the food on her plate. She was full. Under the table, she felt Julian's hand graze her thigh and she looked at him.

 _Sorry_ , he mouthed, and winked at her. Just then they noticed the table had fallen silent and were looking at them expectantly.

"It seems our conversation has bored our young friends," Sloane smiled at them, not insulted. His eyes glittered with amusement. "Sydney, we had just asked what you thought of Mikhail, if you'd seen the show?"

"Oh," she breathed, feeling her cheeks redden like they tended to when she was the center of attention and not on stage, "I haven't seen it, sorry…"

Sloane closed his eyes for a second, forgivingly. "No matter, it's not exactly high art," he conceded. "But always interesting when someone from our world manages to cross over."

There were murmurs of agreement from around the table.

"Perhaps we should move into the study for drinks," Emily suggested smoothly, covering the awkwardness of the conversation ending. "It looks as though everyone's finished anyway."

They drifted into the study, which was decorated with rich Oriental rugs and leather couches. On the mantle over the fireplace there was an elaborate, old-fashioned looking clock. She walked over and was inspecting it when Emily appeared at her shoulder.

"My husband collects devices invented by an Italian… philosopher, someone who was the chief architect to a Pope," Emily explained with a slight roll of her eyes, "Milo Rambaldi."

"Interesting," Sydney said, looking at the clock. She noticed its hands weren't moving, and that there seemed to be some kind of symbol engraved into the face. It was an oval with what appeared to be a less-than and a greater-than sign on either side of it.

"Arvin is practically… obsessed with his work," Emily laughed. "During the Enlightenment there was even a cult of followers who tattooed the sign of Rambaldi onto their hands, here," she indicated with her forefinger at the web of flesh between her hand and her thumb on her left hand, "In order to show their devotion. They were trying to find all the devices Rambaldi had designed, believing that they would fit together to form some kind of giant machine."

"What did the machine do?" Sydney asked, despite herself.

"It was supposed to deliver a message," Julian's voice said behind them. He had walked up without them hearing him.

"Oh, Julian," Emily turned and smiled sweetly, "You scared me."

"Apologies," he said, looking at the clock. "Supposedly Rambaldi's work would allow his followers to achieve eternal life, and bring about a new world order."

"Like the Nazis had interest in the occult," she said, feeling like she was showing off. She didn't really know that much about it.

"Actually, yes," Julian looked at her like he was slightly surprised. "Hitler did have a team working on the Rambaldi artifacts as well—most of their collection went to Russia as the spoils of war… Stalin himself is rumored to have had an interest in Rambaldi's work."

"Julian, please," Emily broke in, "Could we discuss something else, you know it all gives me the shivers."

"Of course," Julian acquiesced. "I didn't mean to—"

"Arvin's been talking this stuff up to Julian since he was knee-high," Emily explained to Sydney, "He has a bit more than a healthy interest in Rambaldi as well."

* * *

**They** stood outside her flat, awkward despite the easy conversation they'd made most of the way home.

"Did you enjoy yourself," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets and leaning against the doorframe.

"Yeah, did you?" she said, unable to get her key in the lock. She hadn't drunk so much in a very long time.

"Here," he said, placing his left hand over her right to steady it as she slipped the key into the lock. Unconsciously she looked at his hand to see if perhaps he had the Rambaldi tattoo on his hand.

He didn't, of course. What nonsense.

She let him follow her into the apartment, but he stood at the door, hesitant. "I should probably be going."

She turned from where she was unlacing her shoe and looked at him. "Oh." Her feet ached. She hadn't worn heels in a long time, either. They held her feet much differently than her pointe shoes.

"Well…" he nodded at her.

"Um, I hope you can make it to the opening," she said, finally able to undo the knot in her left shoe.

"I'll try," he nodded again. He closed the door behind him and strode over to her. He stood in front of her and held her elbow to steady her as she struggled with the knot on her other shoe.

"Thanks," she said tersely, straightening up. He was standing closer to her than she would've liked. She could smell his cologne lightly.

"I'm sure you'll be great," he said confidently, still holding her elbow. His fingers were very warm against her skin. "They're very happy to have you with them for the season."

"Right," she whispered, and he leaned towards her, into the space between her head and her shoulder, like he might hug her, but then he stopped. "I like your perfume."

"It was a gift," she said, "You should be going."

* * *

**He** sank into the leather chair in front of his boss and waited, expectantly.

"How have you been, Julian?" her voice was low, smoky, alto.

"Alright."

"Tell me, this girl you've been spending time with—who is she?"

"A friend of a friend."

"Does she suspect you?"

"Why would she?"

She flipped her mane of chocolate brown hair over her shoulder and stared at him. "Have you given her any reason to?"

He considered carefully. "She did seem interested in the Rambaldi clock that Sloane has, but Emily and I played it as though it were a dead subject."

"I don't need to remind you the risks of fraternization."

"You're correct, you don't," his tone hardened slightly. "Will that be all, then?"

"For now anyway. Be careful, Julian."

* * *

**On** opening night, she came backstage to find a bouquet of flowers outside her dressing room, yellow roses and red gerbera daisies mixed together. Yellow. The color of friendship.

There was a note: _Sydney—best of luck tonight. I'm away on business. Call you soon? J.S._

She hadn't really thought about him. She never thought about anything else, when she was on stage. Still, it was a nice gesture.

There was a knock at her door and when she opened it, Sloane stood outside, beaming. "Sydney, darling, you were brilliant. Margo herself couldn't have danced it better."

She blushed at the overly-nice compliment—no way did her skill compare to Fonteyn's—but said "Thank you" anyway.

"Anyway, you must get changed, you have a great many admirers waiting to congratulate you," Sloane nodded, his palm to her sweaty cheek.

"I'll be out in a minute."

She undid the corset on the side, under her left arm, and drew a black turtleneck on over her head. The neck got stuck on her tiara for a second—she'd forgotten to remove it—but she wiggled her head around and it eventually poked through. She peered at her face in the mirror and blotted what she could of the pancake makeup off. Touched up her mascara and swathed on a new coat of lipgloss. She could tell that the heavy stage makeup accentuated the lines that were becoming more prominent between the edges of her nose and the corners of her mouth, the tiny beginnings of crows' feet under her eyes. It certainly didn't enhance her looks up close.

She drew off her tutu and tights, and replaced them with a long burgundy skirt. Burgundy and black were her staple non-work colors.

* * *

**He** waited in the cold outside her flat for her to get home. Any time now the opening night party would be breaking up.

He didn't have to wait long for a taxi to deliver her to the building. She looked out and saw him, but she didn't smile.

Slowly she crossed the short strip of sidewalk between the parked cars and where he stood, her arms crossed over her chest. Her hair was still in the braided bun from the performance.

"Hi," she said, her voice tired. "I got your flowers."

"Good," he nodded, "I'm sorry I couldn't make it—business called me to New Yor—"

"Julian," she interrupted him, "What is this? I don't want to give you the wrong impression."

"What is what? A friend can't send flowers?"

She looked at him cautiously, gauging him somehow. He had to force himself to act casual. _Act natural_.

Finally she said, "Would you come up for a coffee? I can't sleep until really late after we open a new show."

"Sure, don't let me keep you up too long."

She smiled shyly at him as she pushed past to go inside the hallway, "I won't."

* * *

**"So** , your mother was a dancer?" she asked from the kitchen. She realized how little she knew about him.

"Yes, she was," he answered from the couch in the living room. She heard him flip the pages of a magazine, probably _Dance_ or some other trade journal she got and never read. At least it looked like she still cared.

"What about your dad?"

"Ah, I don't know."

"You don't know?" she repeated, stirring some coffee crystals into the boiling water from the teakettle and watching hypnotically as they liquefied and dissolved in a swirl of dark into clear. Like scarves in a modern piece.

"My mother defected from the U.S.S.R. while she was pregnant with me," he explained, "I never knew my father."

"Oh," she said, "I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"What about your parents?"

"My mom died when I was 5," she said, "And my dad sells airplane parts. He wasn't around much—he was always different after she was gone."

"Yes, I would imagine so," he looked up as she carried the steaming cups into the living room and placed them gently on the coffee table.

She sank down without a word on the couch next to him and stared at the coffee. "Thanks for coming up."

"I'm still on New York time," he offered.

She reached behind her head with both hands and began pulling out bobby pins from the heavy braid. It was starting to itch.

"Here," he said, "Let me help you."

She started when he touched her shoulder, staring at him, frozen. "You'll need to turn around so I can get at your bun," he explained.

Almost against her will she turned away and sat cross-legged so he could work the pins out of her hair. Sometimes Danny helped her get her hair out, when she was home. There was no way he could've known how lonely it made her for her apartment in the South Loop, for the rumble of the L-trains, the smell of Danny's cigarettes.

"My mum had really long hair as well," he explained, gently tugging an offending pin from under the ponytail holder that secured the whole knot to the back of her head. "I think nearly all dancers do."

His hand grazed the back of her neck, the tiny bumps of her spine that stuck out when she bowed her head, and she felt the goosebumps raise on her shoulderblades.

 _Julian_ , she whispered in her mind.

"There you go," he said, placing the small mountain of bobby pins on the edge of the coffee table. "Better?"

She stood abruptly and turned to him, holding out her hand. "Come with me," she whispered.

He looked up at her, surprised, for several long seconds. "What?"

She beckoned him silently again with her hand and this time he grasped her fingers and let her lead him into her bedroom.

* * *

**She** knelt on the bed in front of him, and her face was a little above his as she bent to kiss his mouth. He wrapped his arm around her slender waist and pulled her close to him as she kissed him, her tongue in his mouth. She tasted slightly like mint. His free hand found the zipper of her skirt and the sound of the metal teeth separating sounded like gunfire over the sounds of their breathing. Her fingers trembled on the buttons of his shirt, but her hands were warm when she slid her palms over his shoulders and down the plane of his stomach to his pants.

He pushed her away and drew her sweater over her head. She wasn't wearing a bra, and her nipples stood out, hard in the night air. He noticed, as he twisted one between his thumb and his forefinger, that the bedroom window was open. She arched against him when he pinched her nipple and moaned softly into his mouth. Her clever hands undid his trousers and she pushed them off his hips.

Like lightening he pushed her onto her back, and she pulled him towards her with equal vigor. He could feel her engagement ring against the back of his neck, where her hand was pulling him down to meet her kisses again. Her body was hot, hard under his; she was all muscle and bone, no extra padding anywhere. And surprisingly rough. He wanted to be gentle with her, not hurt her, but she was directing him otherwise with her firm hands and kisses that were anything but tender. She grabbed his lower lip in her teeth and tugged, and he could taste a little blood where her teeth sank into his flesh.

"Sydney," he whispered, "I don't want to injure you."

"Don't," she said, her voice low, "I'm not that delicate."

He reached down between them and yanked down her underwear then, and her gaze never left him as he did as she asked.

It didn't surprise him when she came several minutes later, only when she whispered his name in his ear: _Sark_.

* * *

**She** lay in his bed, listening to him in the shower. It was 4 in the afternoon on a Saturday. They had plans for dinner, later.

It was the first time she had been to his apartment. Not that she'd had much time to look around. These days they talked little.

Her eye fell to the nightstand, a two-drawer affair with brushed silver drawer pulls. Unable to stem her sudden curiosity, she reached down and pulled open the top drawer. Nothing juicy. A dog-eared copy of _The English Patient_ , a few condoms—not that they ever seemed to use them, some prescription sleeping pills.

Bottom drawer: there was a wooden box, the size of cigar box, inside. She froze when she saw the inscription on the top lid.

It was the Rambaldi symbol.

Her heart quickened as she heard the shower slow to a trickle and then, a drip. She reached down and flipped open the lid of the slender box.

Inside were passports, several of them. The one on top of the heap was blue, and bore the American eagle clutching the olive branches in its talons. Her fingers trembled as she drew it out and opened it.

Surname: Garo.

Given names: Peter Allen.

Nationality: UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

Place of Birth: Oregon, U.S.A.

She sat up suddenly, not even knowing why she was afraid. A chill had come over her despite the warmth under his comforter.

She slipped out of bed and pulled her shirt and underwear on in a haste. She was bending over to get her jeans when she heard the floor squeak behind her.

"Sydney," he said, and she whirled around. He smiled at her and pressed his lips to her forehead. Then his eyes fell on the open nightstand drawer.

He looked at the open box, then at her, and something in his eyes changed.

She trembled and felt like she was watching them on film as she heard herself say, "Who is Peter Garo-who are you?"

He looked away, then back at her. "I don't work at a bank."

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on ff.net 2005 under same pen name. 
> 
> This was multi-chapter on ff.net, just made it one long story here instead.


End file.
